Eleven Seconds
by shellcottages
Summary: It was his dying wish he could never achieve. Oneshot. Based off the 12C promo.


_A/N: I don't know where this came from. Normally I spend a lot of time writing, editing, re-editing, re-re-editing (as with chapter 3 of 5 Times, which even almost a year later _still_ isn't turning out the way I want it), but this came from a few hours of fangirlish emotion and too many theories, and I have to say that I kinda like it...sorta...you know. Thanks for reading my first venture into Degrassi fanfiction!_

* * *

He had pretended that he was better for far too long.

It was true that he was _better_, at least, but not best. He wasn't quite there yet; still at the point where he was aware he was asking himself "who am I?" or "why am I still like this?" on a regular basis, far, far away when he was content enough not to notice change in his behaviours and personality. He kept telling himself that his world was changing, and he should too. That held him off for a while.

It wasn't "good" by any means. But it definitely wasn't "bad", which was what mattered. Nobody would care if you weren't good unless you were bad.

He thought that in order to find himself again, he would first need to let go. His plan was to disappear slowly so that nobody would notice his struggle, and blend back into the world as soon as he had all the answers. And it had worked; very few suspected anything different, and he was able to throw off the ones who did with ease.

But his plan backfired. Eventually he got so tired of constantly failing at his own game that he stopped looking for a reason for his change and just lived in his own confusion. And he went from "not good" to "bad" without anyone noticing, not even himself.

And if Campbell Saunders' priority wasn't still to "blend in", maybe the ending would be different.

* * *

He expected everything to go back to the way it was before. He really did. It was what kept him from going too far for so long; there was the promise that the life he had lived for fifteen years wasn't thrown away by the people who brought him up that way.

But when he learned that they too had changed, he went from being home to being in a house very quickly.

They were happy to have him back with the family for the break, he knew that much, but the atmosphere was different, divided between them. He had to ask questions for all the changes in their lifestyle in which they had forgot to fill him in. Everything was became "no, what does Cam want to do?" instead of spending their nights doing whatever the way they used to. Friends of his parents, his siblings, all those people who wouldn't have cared before, suddenly they pretended to be interested before inevitably steering the conversation back to hockey somehow.

He needed it to be satisfying, and it wasn't.

It was then where he started to worry more than usual. All he was looking for was a recharge, somewhere to go back to during those moments where he felt scared, or angry, or whenever he just needed to go somewhere else, and it wasn't happening. He was still living in his new world that he wanted to leave more and more every day, and just because things were different didn't make them any better.

He was so desperate to stay in Kapuskasing long enough for his life to go back to normal and for the previous three months to be erased and forgotten that he considered telling his family how he felt. Not telling them everything, of course, but enough to keep him at his home-turned-house; he wanted to have it become home again.

On the last night before going back, he intended to tell Justin. There was no other option; his dad was always too "tough" to understand, his other siblings too young, his mother would know how he felt but would think that moving past it would be the better decision. His older brother was his only choice. It had to work. It just _had_ to.

The conversation kept going in other directions whenever he tried to steer it. It was getting impossible. He trusted Justin, so for a brief moment, all intents of subtlety were completely forgotten; out of nowhere, Cam said, "I don't want to go back."

And Justin, though he definitely knew what his brother was talking about, feigned ignorance and replied, "Go back where?"

Cam felt the worry form in his stomach and regretted bringing it all up at all. His brother was judging him. Panic bubbled throughout his chest, and Cam felt that the moment he breathed it would take over more than just his chest, but his whole being. It was his body and mind's way of blaming him for risking exposure of his secret.

So to stop it, he turned the attention away from his problems, shrugging them off. "I don't know," he started casually, just as he always would when he got anxious, "It's just, hockey's getting kind of different now, you know? Like..." he thought of a word that could describe how it all felt, and he chose "..._harder._"

He hoped it would end there, and the fear branching out through his arms and legs would return to the pit of his stomach and slowly dissolve, but Justin went on.

"Stop being a pussy, Cam. You're just not trying hard enough."

That hurt, a lot. Cam knew what he was trying to say, but his emotions took it to new levels. His brother had no idea just how hard he was trying to keep it together, for his team, for his new "friends", for _them, _and maybe the tiny piece of himself that wasn't lost in all of this. But Justin couldn't know. He felt worse telling the truth than he did lying, because instant fear was far more painful than prolonged fear.

So he simply said "Yeah" and stopped there.

But late that night, the words still hadn't left him.

_You're just not trying hard enough._

It drove him over the edge.

There were many times when he was playing hockey that he had held the skate in his hand in a moment of desperation, hoping to trace along his skin to distract him in any way from the impossible-to-describe emotions exploding from the top of his head to his fingertips to his feet. At the last second, however, he was always able to convince himself not to do it. Sometimes because he felt like it wasn't the answer. Sometimes it was because he didn't want to risk anyone seeing the scars. Once he had actually broke the skin, though just barely, and his panic grew too great. He couldn't handle the pressure of hating himself.

But this time, he wasn't alone in hating himself.

_You're just not trying hard enough._

He had been okay in the past with his efforts not being noticed, but having them frowned upon, that was new.

_You're just not trying hard enough._

They hated him. And he hated them too; the type of hate you could only know if you loved them even more.

_You're just not trying hard enough._

They wanted to see him try? He would try. He would be strong enough to do what they wanted. They wanted to see him to leave home again and live a life he wasn't ready to live. They wanted to see him suffer.

So he took the skate from his hockey bag and pressed it against his opposite palm. He flinched away the moment a cut was formed, but his anger-filled determination forced it right back at impulse, deepening his wound. He took it away and found a new spot, driving it into his skin. It hurt. He wanted to stop, but then he wouldn't be trying, now would he? And that was what they wanted.

Before he knew it, his shiny blades we covered in the colour of rust, and they had left their countless marks on his hands, and when he realized that his scars would be seen there, he had even tried new places, like on the top of his arms near his shoulders or his legs or in the center of his stomach. His skate blade became dull and could no longer make an impression, but as much as Cam wanted to reach for the other one and try again, he was too broken to move. He was in so much pain that his body refused to feel it anymore without constant attempt. The tears stung his face like acid, and Cam forced himself to take it in rather than focus on their source. He was done. There was nothing left to do, now that his only hope had failed him.

Eventually the boy drifted off into a dreamless sleep, and when he woke up in the morning, there was a brief moment before he remembered how far he had gone where he could've been considered "happy".

But now he was going to try, and he was going to try to live through hell.

* * *

He was nervous to go back to school, especially now that his escape route only led him back without warning. He had people he would spend time with, but none of them were his real friends. The people he played hockey with had supported him, but none of them helped form a real team. The people who ran his classes were kind, but none of them helped form a real teacher bond. He was alone at Degrassi.

Except for maybe her.

She ran up to him, throwing her arms around his neck, leaning in for the kiss. Cam's lips responded back. This was something he missed. He missed the way his heart dropped when he was with her, only because he knew that she loved him back. He could make her feel special, and knowing that made _him_ feel special. She could be the reason why he would try.

Try.

He broke apart from her embrace. The word brought everything back to him. His scars weren't even scars yet; it wouldn't take long for her to notice them, or for anyone to notice them. He needed to stop, to hide away, so nobody could know.

She reached for his hands, and the panic increased, for there were fresh cuts literally in her grasp. "I crazy missed you," she said, and he could only believe her. He responded with an "I missed you too," because he knew that if he had taken a moment out of his own screwed-up reality, he would've remembered how important she was to him. Guilt started to form from his own selfishness, but as always, Maya had unknowingly calmed him down before it had time to take its deadly effect.

"We need to catch up," she said. "Movie date, my house, tonight?"

Cam was anxious, yet excited at the same time. Maya was important to him, for without her, he never would have found sanctity after the mental turmoil of breaking his own arm, but he needed to escape. He didn't want her to have to deal with any of his problems. His family was done with him, and soon she could be too.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw _him _in the distance behind her. He had completely forgotten about him, too, and he had to ask himself how. But then he determined that the answer didn't matter, because there he was. The only thing that could get between him and he girl he needed. He needed Maya. He _needed_ her.

He didn't want to think about losing her to Zig Novak, so he agreed to the movie date just to have something to keep his mind going for the rest of the day. She smiled and leaned up to kiss him again, and he took the time to remember how he felt in that moment, just in case he needed to remember something beautiful.

* * *

That night, as the movie they didn't watch played in the background, he felt more connected with her than he had felt with anyone in a long time. It started out with a childish pillow fight, but soon it had escalated to something much greater and more important. It wasn't just for the fact that they were kissing (and kissing and kissing and kissing), but more for the fact that she didn't pull away. She was letting him take in all of who she was. He was letting her do the same and she didn't stop. She might've even enjoyed it.

Their passion increased and there was nothing to get in their way. It wasn't much by the societal romantic standards, but he was doing his best to ignore them and just focus on Maya. Maya, the girl who was clashing her lips against his, allowing them to escape into bliss. Maya, the girl with the soft, blonde hair that his hands disappeared within. Maya, the girl whose hands moved from his arms to the top of his waist, her hands starting to travel onto the skin of his stomach-

Oh, God no, not the stomach.

The cuts were still fresh enough to be felt, the scabbing blood raised above the skin's natural texture. She could find out, any second now. She had to. There was hardly any time; he knew her fingers had already grazed the injuries, and soon enough she would process everything. And then she would leave him for being a lunatic.

He pulled away too fast, but she was still in a haze from their unordinary fit of passion for her to notice. After a brief moment, she noticed he was on the other end of the couch, and she frowned at him.

"How about we just watch the movie?" he asked, desperate to keep his reality as distant as possible. She agreed, but he knew he had upset her. She was something so important to him, and he had let her down because he hated himself just as everyone else did.

He opened his arms, welcoming her to lay in his grasp, and she accepted, looking slightly more content. It was all he could do not to convince himself that he was a terrible person, and it worked as much as he needed it to. He focused on the girl in his arms, but knowing deep down that even the tiniest mistake could tear them apart.

It could have gone so much further. Obviously not "all the way", but further than just an ordinary make-out. When they had broken up (don't think about that, don't think about that, don't think about that), it was because he didn't show her that he cared. But he _did_ care. He cared about a lot of things, far too much for his own good. But he especially cared about her, because she's been the only thing that has consistently kept him from losing his mind.

They never finished the movie. They both started to fall asleep, Maya burying her head in Cam's chest. Her hand covered the round of his shoulder, which underneath his shirt lay even more forming scars, but he didn't dare move away from her. He couldn't afford to lose her anymore.

Just as he was about to fall asleep, he heard her tiredly whisper "I love you."

He wanted to say "_You don't even know me_," but instead, Campbell Saunders replied with another truth:

"I love you too."

* * *

His last day was during Spirit Week.

Spirit Week. What a stupid idea.

Student Council had separated the entire school into three teams for some "community-bonding" activities during lunch hours for the first week of the semester. Nobody really liked it, but some people were able to put up with it better than others.

Cam was not one of those people.

He didn't realize how much it bothered him how quickly those two had put their past behind them until the floor hockey intermurals. They were on the same team. That shouldn't had bothered him as much as it did; there was a thirty-three percent chance that would happen, anyway. The part that threw him off was the amount of time they spent together, as a team. It wasn't regular Super-Fun-Spirit-Day-Awesomeness! type of teamwork, but more like a one-on-one connection.

When she broke up with Cam (again, he kept reminding himself, don't think about that) she had kissed Zig. She _kissed_ him. As in she let it happen and didn't let it stop. Or she wanted it to happen and made it happen. It was because he was willing to show her how much he "cared", wasn't it? It was because she needed physical affection and he was there to give it to her.

And Cam had stopped kissing her during the movie date when he had the chance to give it to her.

She wanted more and he blew it because he was afraid she would discover his pathetic secret. And now she was spending more time with the enemy, the bearer of the elephant in the room. At any minute she could switch over because this guy wasn't an idiot enough not to deny her of the affection she deserves.

He was so stupid.

Green versus Red. Cam took her aside right before the game and presented her a sloppy and rushed, yet an undoubtedly passionate kiss. He made sure other people noticed, including someone else in particular. When they broke apart, he could see the question in her eyes, but the enjoyment was far more present to him. That was all he needed.

She awkwardly thanked him (does that situation even warrant a thank you?) and quickly retreated back to her team. Too quickly. It hadn't worked the way he had expected it to at all, because now she was back together with him on the other side of the gym and - was he _tying up her bandana for her?_

She was slipping away from him again.

The game quickly got physical. Almost immediately, he was struggling with Zig to try to take control of the little orange plastic puck. But it was more that Zig was struggling with _him_; if he had it his way, he would have completely avoided him at all costs. And here the idiot was, trying to _push aside a Toronto freaking Ice Hound_ to win a stupid game that nobody cared about.

But maybe it wasn't all about the game. Maybe it was for a completely different game, one that Cam didn't have full control.

He heard her voice from the sidelines. "Go Zig!" she cried.

Go _Zig?_

"You're going down," the now-smiling boy whispered by Cam's ear as their sticks clashed into each others', barely making contact with the puck anymore. It was too much. Within a day, he had already lost her to the last person he could afford to lose her too. It was hell. He wanted to kill him, to hurt him, for him to be maimed in any way, but he knew his efforts couldn't make any actual damage.

But hell, wasn't all that he learned at home during the break was to _try?_

His elbow slammed hard into the enemy's face, making him drop his stick and the crowd go silent almost instantaneously. He was still standing, so his job wasn't finished. "Fight me!" he yelled, as he pushed him down with his stick. Zig was clutching at his eye. It made Cam feel powerful, important.

He looked over at her, and tried to read deep into her expression for _any_ sort of appreciation for his efforts, but if there was anything deep inside, it was masked by a lot more: anger, confusion, disappointment, _failure_.

He was a failure to Maya Matlin. Always had, and always would be.

One staff supervisor escorted him to the office as another tended to the boy's injury, and all Cam wanted was for the damage to be permanent, or better, the damage to have had happened to him.

* * *

The principal had called up both the coach and the team manager. What happens at school affects what was on the ice, and at the beginning of the playoffs, the team would have lost their previously injured all-star rookie for a total of ten games.

_Ten games._

As in, at most, two and a half rounds of playoffs games.

Though the team hadn't found out yet, they'd see those figures as a loss. _Almost three entire rounds! One false slip and they'd be out of the running!_ But he saw it as a disappointment for a different reason; eventually, he would be allowed back. He knew the team; they would work harder and harder and push themselves to win without him, so that the moment he came back, then they would take the cake. For Cam, it was a blow to the head that he wasn't kicked off the team permanently, sent home to re-adjust back to the life he was forced away from.

He should have hit him harder.

She came in just as he was leaving the office, her expression unchanged from the one he saw in the battlefield.

"What the hell was that?" she demanded.

"I'm sorry," he stumbled, but he wasn't sorry. Not for hurting him, at least. He _was_ sorry for hurting _her_.

"You completely attacked him out of nowhere!"

"He was egging me on!"

"So you beat him up? Is that _really_ the way to handle your problems, Cam?" She turned to leave, but he fought to keep her.

"I was just jealous!" He pleaded her to believe him. She _needed _to believe him.

She turned back. "Just jealous? You went _crazy_."

The words stung. He tried to fight them back with words of his own, but his mouth failed him.

The girl continued. "If you're going to go apeshit every time I'm with another guy-"

He found his speech. "It's _not_ just another guy, it's him! He's out to get me!"

"What are you talking about?"

"He wants you, and he's trying to take you away from me!" He was about to lose control.

She was appauled. "And I'm _yours_ to keep? Like I'm some possession?"

Oh, no, he thought. This was going all wrong. "No, no no no," he stammered, "it's just-"

"You know, I can leave any time I want!"

"I- I know," he panicked, sensing the inevitable.

"And I think I'm going to leave right now, for real."

"Maya- don't- please-"

"I can't be with you if you're going to be like this."

"I thought you loved me!" He didn't believe the words when she said them, but now all he needed for his mind to be changed was for her to say them again.

Instead she replied with what ended up being the truth, "I don't even know who you are."

When she left, he went to that place again. The place where he was kissing her before class the day before. When she was something beautiful and he was something less insane. A moment he would never have again.

The thought made him want to tear his body apart again, but his skate was at home for the rare night without a practice, as his nights for ten games would soon become. He was desperate, but he couldn't think of hurting himself any other way; he was only going to hurt himself with something that would have done it on its own, hockey.

So instead, he spent his time letting his mind fight between a peaceful moment and the hell that he would never have it again. It was enough to keep him at ease for the night of destruction he wouldn't be able to reach.

* * *

He had detention, too. The principal had taken him out his classes, which Cam thought was a stupid idea, but that was the only way to guarantee that he would actually attend the detentions. He was expected to catch up on his schoolwork on his own time, but he had no intention to actually do that.

So the principal thought he went crazy too, did he? There was no denying it anymore. The only thing keeping him from a total meltdown was thinking about a lost kiss that would never happen again, and fighting to focus on the kiss part rather than the never happening again part. It was a struggle.

He was quickly unraveling, and nobody was there to stop him.

He was let out at the end of the day, and he made his way to his locker. He was there for ten seconds when someone came up to him.

"Rookie! Everything is screwed up thanks to you!"

Dallas and the team must've heard the news, and the team captain was taking it just the way he had expected. But he was too tired to fight now. He let his deserved verbal beating ring through his ears without retaliation.

"We've lost our top goal-scorer for ten games because _someone_ took stupid Spirit Week way too damn seriously!" He was livid. "That's one, two, maybe three playoff rounds. How could you be so selfish? The whole team was counting on you, Cam. You!"

The words just slipped over him, like oil on top of water. They had no impact anymore.

The moment he had started trying, he had failed, so why bother trying anymore? Sure, it would let his family and team down, but he did that pretty well even when he _was _trying. Dallas' words kept fighting, but Cam reached the point where he could no longer listen, and he felt free.

He closed his locker door, the sound masked by the captain's yells, and walked away. The yells turned to screams, but for him, it was just noise. All it ever needed to be to survive.

When he escape from the wrath, he sat on the stairs outside. The buses hadn't arrived yet. He wasn't sure if he was going to take the bus, or if he would call his billets for a ride, or if he would just walk the forty-minute route on his own. He would decide when the moment came.

He thought of her taste, something so strange, so _rare_, so rare that he would never have it again. Never again. Never-

"I'm talking to you."

He looked up and saw the black eye. The result of his own carelessness. It was funny how quickly the bruising formed. It gave him the sort of gratification he never received when he inflicted it. He turned away, sinking into the thought that he could do something so powerful.

"You can't keep up this act for long," he said.

What act was he talking about? He couldn't have known about the scars, could he? He had to change the subject, and now.

"So you like Maya?" he said, staring straight ahead.

"She has nothing to do with this."

"We broke up, you know? You can have her, she's all yours."

There was silence, so he looked up at Zig. His mouth was actually open, his swollen eye narrowed even further out of confusion, or anger, or _something._

"So all this is because of Maya?"

He nodded.

"You're a _psycho_."

It was half the words he said, half the way he said it. He said it with such venom in his voice, with such effort to force the truth. And it was so calm. He didn't lash out on him like Dallas did, but let his meaning come through implications. It had stayed with him long after the words of anyone else.

And then there were the words themselves. _You're a psycho_. It wasn't "You're acting like a psycho," or "Your psychoticness is temporary," but he _was_ a psycho. It was something that was a part of him, that he couldn't change. This was who he was, and who he would continue to be, and that was why everyone hated him.

He was done.

"And _you,_" he said, grabbing his stuff, not looking at the man who confirmed his fate, "are a fucking asshole." He knew that Zig wasn't the fucking asshole, and he knew who really was, but he was so close to exploding that he needed to make one final false blame for his problems. He ran away, but he didn't know where to go, but nowhere would be far enough to get away from how he felt.

_You're just not trying hard enough._

_I don't even know who you are._

_You're a psycho._

Campbell Saunders stopped living from the moment that he realized all of this was true.

* * *

He was completely shattered on the floor of the science lab, as was some of the equipment he threw in his rage. The only purposeful cuts he made were in the standard location in the center of his palm, but he stopped when he realized that they weren't going to make him feel any better or worse, but only different. And difference was something he couldn't handle. He wanted consistency and it was something he could never have.

The door to the classroom opened. He became aware that he was crying, and hard. He needed to stop, to be completely silent so that nobody would notice him. He attempted to hold his breath, but his sobs had control of his body and overpowered his desire to stay quiet.

She found him. His tutor had found him. Why did she come? Did she see him go in? Would she also know that he was actually a psycho? The monsoon of thoughts crashed over him, and his meltdown became all the worse.

"Cam?" Alli asked. "Are you okay?"

"No," he said in a desperate, hoarse voice. "Just get out."

"I kind of need the lab today," she said, completely unphased. "What's going on?"

"Everything is awful!" he said, letting the pain fuel his rage, not trying to put up a fight. "I thought this semester was going to be better, but I already messed it all up!"

"Okay," she said, clearly not knowing what to do, "Let's just calm down and-"

Those words were his trigger. "No!" he screamed, and she froze. "I can't calm down! She left me and now I have nobody left, not a single person left to help me!"

He threw another flask against the wall, and the girl pleaded for him to stop both softly and slightly annoyedly. He didn't care. He had nearly forgotten there was someone else in the room until she felt her hands on his shoulders.

"Cam," she repeated his name several time but he didn't respond. At last he mustered enough courage to look her in the face. "If this is over a girl, then you need to take a minute and realize that there will be other girls. You're overreacting."

That was the wrong thing to say. Alli could have been his last chance and now it was thrown away.

There was nothing left to convince him to hold on any longer. He was already dead. His heart was still beating and he was still breathing and the tears kept falling but there was no substance anymore. He was a psychotic failure. He tried and he was wrong, and he stopped trying and he was still wrong. Nobody thought there was a chance in hell that he would move past this, so it was best just to have the mental and physical funeral at appropriately similar times.

"Yeah, I'm overreacting," Cam said in a daze, doing what he could to blend in as usually did. And he walked out of the room, leaving his backpack and mess behind him.

"Cam?" she asked tentatively.

"I'm fine," he said as he rounded the door, and that would be the last lie he had ever told.

* * *

No living person thinks about ending their life, but he was already dead.

Somehow, he was on the roof, far from the ledge, but still on the roof. _On the roof. _He was on the roof, maybe twenty steps away from who knows how many feet towards the cold, hard pavement of the ground.

The place of his final moments wouldn't be all that comfortable, but it was only fitting that it would be that way.

The anxiety wasn't disappearing. He hoped it would vanish with his tears, escape with the river, but it didn't. It was there in his mind, and behind his eyes, and in his fingernails, and his ankles, and in every space of his body and the air around him that he didn't want to breathe, and the roof which could support his weight but not his emotions.

But he wasn't afraid of dying. He was afraid of having to hold in the pain for any longer; the prospect of living. Staying in reality was worse than never giving anyone another chance.

_He wasn't afraid of dying._

When he became aware of this, he became even more afraid of living. He was so terrified to have to live in a world where he knew he was trapped, where the other route was so much easier.

The sun was shining in his eyes. He looked at it dead on. Fuck his eyesight, it wasn't as if his eyes were going to be given to a blind child after this was over. No, he would be sent back to Kapuskasing and quickly be buried and never talked about ever again. Just the way he wanted it.

He would be free.

For the last time, Campbell Saunders closed his eyes and started running straight ahead, wanting to get it done and over with. He wanted his last sight to be the burning sun, and not where he would end up in a few short moments. But he could still see the inside of his eyelids. Not for long. Just a few more steps.

And he tripped over the edge.

And he started to fall.

And then he started to be afraid of dying.

But there was no going back.

His second last thought was regret.

And his last thought was hating himself for regret.

Hatred. A fitting ending.

But at least he was free.

He hit the ground, and barely had time to register the pain from his leg breaking before he hit his head, and everything went black.

* * *

Eleven more seconds.

If Campbell Saunders had waited eleven more seconds, he would have been caught by a frantic Mike Dallas, who Alli Bhandari had ran into after his episode. Maybe he still would have jumped, or maybe not. Maybe he would have picked up his backpack from the destroyed science lab, and took it to and from school every day further. Maybe he and Dallas would've formed an actual friendship that exceeded the boundaries of teammates.

If Campbell Saunders had waited eleven more seconds, he could have went to therapy, or maybe not. He could have had his problems sorted out by a specialist, or by medication, or on his own. He could have taken a break back with his family, and their bond would be restored. He could have made up with Maya, or even get back together, or always stay on their final terms. He could have graduated from high school, and had a successful hockey career, or a complete flop, or somewhere in between. He could have gotten married, or have kids, or babysat his nieces and nephews, and die old and happy with fulfillment.

But it was eleven seconds too late. He was too eager to be free.

Instead, a couple waiting in the parking lot saw him fall, and when someone screamed, the crowd formed. And most were too traumatised to scream, or to feel, or to experience. Parents were called. Memorials were held, a lasting landmark to his memory was placed for everyone to see, the school supplied a field trip for those closest to him to attend the funeral twelve hours away. All those who went were not truly close to him at all, but those eleven seconds didn't give him a chance.

He was too eager to be free.

But he was never free, for long after his life had ended, he was held under the stigma of The Kid Who Killed Himself, and nobody understood why, which kept them wondering, which kept him _alive._ He didn't want that.

It was his dying wish that he could never achieve; he would never be free.

* * *

_A/N: I couldn't find a way for the Cam/Tristan conversation to lead to his breakdown, so I skipped over it. I hope you liked it!_


End file.
